


A White Coverlet to Cool a Hobbit's Toes

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the quest, Frodo observes snow on the top of the mountain. He remembers Caradhras and wants to experience it under better circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A White Coverlet to Cool a Hobbit's Toes

Frodo and Sam sat on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard, their feet dangling, their faces tilted toward the sun. A bath of golden light warmed their cheeks.

“It’s a fine, fine feeling,” Sam said. “I wasn’t sure we’d ever see the sun again. But here it is back again, bright and warm.” Sam paused and spoke in a quieter voice. “Reminds me of the Lady Galadriel, it does. I wonder if we’ll ever see her again.”

Frodo smiled, keeping his eyes closed. “The sun was never gone, Sam. It was only hidden by shadow for a time. And as for the Lady Galadriel? We may yet see her again.”

“And what do you we have here?” a loud voice barked, tearing Frodo and Sam out of their contemplations. Pippin, dressed fully in his Guard of the Citadel garb, stood in front of them looking awfully important and haughty, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Merry stood beside him, crossing his arms, nodding his agreement. Frodo could not get over how large they had grown.

“Come, you rascals,” Frodo said, patting the ledge of the fountain beside him. “Sit with us. Didn’t you bring us anything to eat?”

“Bring you anything to eat?” Pippin said, feigning surprise. “I’m on guard duty. Unlike some folk, I’m working.”

“Humph,” Frodo said. “Letting a poor, helpless Ringbearer starve.”

Merry pinched Frodo’s stomach. “I wouldn’t call this starving. You’re becoming quite the hobbit you were before the quest.”

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, flushing with sudden dismay. “You didn’t tell me you were hungry. I can go fetch you whatever you want!”

Frodo laughed. “I was only teasing, Sam. Sit back down. I’m not really hungry yet. I may be by tea time, though, which doesn’t seem to happen much in this city. I will never get used to how little Men eat.”

His attention was captured by Mount Mindolluin. The snow on the upper peaks captured the dazzle of the sun so that it hurt his eyes to look upon it.

“It’s difficult to imagine that there are places in the world right in view that are cold enough for snow,” Frodo said.

The other hobbits followed his gaze.

“After Caradhras,” Sam said. “I don’t think I ever want to see snow again. I’ve had my fill.”

“Me, too,” Pippin shuddered. “Don’t you remember how cold our toes were?”

“Do you remember how Boromir carried us down the mountain while at the same time clearing a path for the others behind him?” Merry asked with a sad smile.

Pippin nodded and they all fell into sad silence, remembering the noble, brave man who had died trying to save them.

“Boromir was very brave,” Frodo said. He would forever keep the secret from his young cousins of his own last encounter with the man. “But I disagree with you. I should very much like to cool my toes on snow again and breathe in fresh mountain air.”

“I’d say that’s a long trek up that mountain,” Merry said. “Haven’t you had enough wandering to last you the rest of your life?”

  
***

That night there was a feast in the Great Hall of the King’s House. The tables were piled with succulent foods from all over the realm – stuffed birds and gravies, potatoes and vegetables, stews, freshly baked bread and fresh butter. The hobbits sat at a table alone, barely talking as they ate.

Frodo said nothing, but he was not feeling well. He shivered from cold and yet his cheeks burned. His appetite was simply not what he would have expected it to be after a day of hardly eating anything at all. Sometimes he dropped his fork and just sat still, overwhelmed by dizziness and unable to gather the strength to raise his fork to his mouth.

“Are you all right, Frodo?” Merry asked him. Sam immediately turned to him with concern.

“I’m feeling somewhat faint,” Frodo said truthfully. “Perhaps I sat in the sun for too long today. I’ll be all right. I think I just need more food.” His cheeks burned, and nausea curdled his stomach. Not only did he have no desire for more food, but he began to regret the food that he had already eaten.

“For goodness sake, Frodo, you’ve hardly eaten a bite,” Merry said.

Frodo’s stomach churned with greater alarm until he jumped from his chair and bolted from the Great Hall, desperate for privacy.

Not far outside the Hall, he fell to his knees in a quiet corner and emptied his stomach. He hoped the sound would not carry to anyone in the Great Hall.

When he finished, he trembled, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and swallowing again and again until he felt he had some control of his stomach.

“Frodo?” A large hand gripped his shoulder, and Frodo was dismayed to see Aragorn, dressed in his finest.

“I’m sorry, Aragorn,” Frodo gasped. “I’m afraid I must have stayed in the sun for too long today.”

“Do not beg my pardon,” Aragorn said. “The sun can be harmful, especially for one still recovering from all you’ve endured. I suspect you will be sensitive to the heat for many years to come.”

“Mr. Frodo!” Frodo heard Sam padding down the hall after him, out of breath. “Are you all right?”

“I’m all right,” Frodo called out. “Go back and eat, Sam.”

“It’s all right,” Aragorn said to Sam. “I shall take care of your master.”

Sam watched them with a little suspicion until Frodo smiled and waved at him, thus proving that he was not about to perish, before he turned around and went back into the Great Hall.

“I shall take you to your cottage,” Aragorn said.

“Oh, no,” Frodo said, looking at him in horror. “You’ve got duties here. I can make it on my own. I’m already feeling much better after…” He looked in dismay at the mess he had made on the floor. “I am sorry.”

Aragorn laughed. “Fear not. I’ve many servants who will find it a great honor to clean up after the Ringbearer.”

“Oh.” Frodo covered his face in embarrassment. “Oh, dear.”

“Come now. Allow me to carry you back to your cottage,” Aragorn said, leaving no room for argument.

“All right,” Frodo said. In truth he felt too weak to walk on his own, and it was quite a long walk back to the cottage that he shared with the other hobbits and Gandalf.

Aragorn lifted Frodo easily, and Frodo put his arms around the king’s, leaning his hot cheek on Aragorn’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“It is a great honor,” Aragorn said.

“But do you not need to be at the feast?”

“I do,” Aragorn said. “But right now I must perform one of the most important of my duties -- to make certain that the Ringbearer, without whom I should never have achieved Kingship, is comfortable and well.”

“Ah, if that’s the case,” Frodo said, snuggling into Aragorn’s warmth. “Then I feel better. At any rate, the people of Minas Tirith will enjoy excellent food in your absence.”

“Oh?” Aragorn teased. “So a hobbit finds the kitchens in Minas Tirith acceptable and to his tastes?”

Frodo laughed. “Well…it’s only a pity that you don’t have Bilbo working in your kitchen. But considering it’s not hobbit food, it’s not too bad.”

“I’m glad to have your approval.”

Frodo smiled. “All food tastes wonderful to me right now. Lembas is a marvelous invention of the Elves, dear friend. But I hope never to taste it again.”

Aragorn laughed. “I must agree with you on that one.”

As they stepped into the warm spring night, Frodo’s eyes turned again to the shadowy mountains behind Minas Tirith. Under the moonlight the distant snow sparkled like distant fairy dust.

“Does the snow stay on those mountains all year around?”

Aragorn nodded. “Yes, indeed. There are parts of Mount Mindolluin that are so high that it is always winter. The sun never melts the ice and snow.”

“It is marvelous. I should very much like to feel snow on my toes.”

Aragorn smiled. “I should have thought that Caradhras would have spoiled snow for you forever.”

Frodo chuckled. “The other hobbits would agree with you. But in the Shire it rarely snows. Well, Bilbo often tells of the Fell Winter of 1311, when the Brandywine froze and white wolves invaded the Shire.” He shuddered. “I do not want snow like that, but I should very much like to feel the snow on my feet again.”

“Perhaps this can be arranged,” Aragorn said.

“Pardon me?” Frodo turned his gaze back to Aragorn.

“What say you?” Aragorn asked. “What would you think if I should take you up into those mountains?”

“Oh, oh…” Frodo tried to contain his excitement. “But wouldn’t it be an awful lot of trouble?”

“I see how your cheeks color with pleasure at my mere mention of it. Any trouble, as you put it, would be a labor of love as far as I am concerned.”

Frodo squeezed Aragorn’s neck and kissed his cheek with great enthusiasm. “Oh, thank you, dearest of friends! Oh, when could we go?”

Aragorn’s expression turned sober. “Not so fast, my friend. You’ll need a few days to regain your strength. I shall need to arrange the best and safest way for us to climb the mountain. At times, snowstorms come without warning and we do not want to get stuck up there with no supplies.”

They reached Frodo’s cottage, and Aragorn carried him to his bed. Frodo did not bother to change his clothes. He was too tired. He no longer felt sick to his stomach, but he felt limp and exhausted. Aragorn pulled his blankets up to his chin for him. “How do you feel, my friend?”

“Much better. Especially now.””

“Do you suppose your friends would like to come?” Aragorn asked.

Frodo buried his hot cheek into his pillow and said, “Let us keep it a secret from the other hobbits. They will not wish to go and yet they will feel they must to keep me company, especially Sam. After we leave, we can leave a message for Gandalf or something.”

Aragorn nodded before looking stern and sober. “Frodo, I am very serious when I say that we will not go until I feel like you are fully recovered. Storms do come out of seemingly thin air up there. I should never forgive myself if you fell ill far from aid and there was no way to get down the mountain right away.”

Frodo nodded and closed his eyes. “Do not fret,” he said in a voice slurred with drowsiness.

“Goodnight,” Aragorn said and kissed his brow. He blew out the lights of the lanterns and closed the door.

Frodo had already fallen into a deep sleep. He dreamed about a snowstorm with howling wind and blankets of white glitter that gilded the trees in ice.

  
Frodo woke to a room bathed in golden sunlight. A fresh breeze, fragrant with roses newly bloomed, rustled the curtains. Frodo sniffed it in, reveling in the sweet scent, and it made his heart swell with joy. Ever since he had awakened after the quest, he noticed so much for which he was grateful – a feather pillow under his head, a firm mattress, sunlight, the song of birds, the beauty of morning dew on grass, the scent of roses, and a kind, loving glance from a friend. He treasured the feel of the cotton sheet between his fingers. He watched a tiny spider build a web in the corner of the window. The sunlight made the web shimmer like Elvish thread.

The door creaked open, and Sam stuck his head inside, cautious until he saw that Frodo was awake.

Frodo smiled at him. “Come in, dear Sam.”

Sam came into the room and closed the door behind him. “How are you feeling? I was worried all night, even though Mr. Strid— the _king_ said you were all right.”

“Much better,” Frodo said. “I do think it was only the heat.” He touched his cheeks. “I feel burned.”

Sam bustled over to him, scooting a stool so that he could sit beside him. “Yes, sir, your cheeks are a little chapped and red. Are you sure you’re not feverish?” He felt Frodo’s brow, frowning.

“No, I do not have a fever,” Frodo said. “It was only the sun.” He smiled, turning toward the window. “And I am ever grateful for it. I shall never take it for granted again.”

“No, me neither,” Sam said, standing and opening the curtains. “I’ve a message from Strider…er…the _king_ \- confound it, I’m not sure when I’m ever going to get used to him as not Strider.”

“He will be ever honored to have you call him Strider,” Frodo laughed.

“Anyway, I’ve a message from him and he says you’re to stay in bed today and that you’d know why.” Sam looked at Frodo suspiciously. “What did you two talk about last night?”

“Nothing much,” Frodo said, trying to hide a smile. “Well, perhaps we did talk some about snow and the tops of tall mountains.”

“Humph, green hills and gardens is better for me,” Sam said, settling on the stool again.

Frodo’s smile faded and he took Sam’s hand in his. “You miss home, don’t you?”

“Well, of course I do. Don’t you?”

Frodo’s smile faded. Even now that the Ring was gone and he was safe and he could feel the warmth of the sun again, he still struggled to remember all the details of home in the late spring. He knew that strawberries would be growing and flowers and that the grass must be emerald green from the spring rains. But he could not see it clearly in his mind. Instead he saw a world full of mist and shadow.

“I do miss the Shire,” Frodo said. “And we will go home soon. This I promise you.”

Frodo heard a sudden clattering and reckless laughter from outside the door and before he had time to even look at Sam in puzzlement, the door burst open and Merry and Pippin entered, carrying a large tray laden with food.

“Good gracious!” Frodo said in delight. “Something smells marvelous!”

“Breakfast in bed,” Pippin said. “As ordered by the King.”

Sam adjusted the pillows behind Frodo’s back so that he could sit up comfortably.

Pippin and Merry balanced the tray on the bed so that Frodo could eat without having to move from his comfortable position. Frodo could now see that the tray was filled with delectable delights, such as fresh strawberries and cream, porridge, fluffy pancakes with melted butter, eggs and sausage, bread rolls, and freshly brewed tea.

“I had no idea they even served such food here in the city,” Frodo marveled.

“Well they did when we were in charge,” Pippin said, tapping his feet.

“Thank you, dear friends,” Frodo said, laughing. “This is a feast worth staying in bed for. But what about you? What will you eat?”

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other. “Don’t worry, cousin,” Merry said. “We’ve eaten enough for an army while we were helping in the kitchen. But I’m sure there’s plenty for Sam, too.”

“Oh, no thank you,” Sam said, blushing. “I’ve eaten already. Although I might take a few of those strawberries, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Frodo said. “Take anything you like.”

The hobbits settled on the bed at Frodo’s feet while Frodo ate. Frodo did not realize just how hungry he had been until he started eating and could not seem to stop.

“I want to hear about the Ents again,” Frodo said between mouthfuls. “Come now, you only told me that tale in brief that first night after we awakened in Ithilien. Every time I look at you two, I can’t believe how big you’ve gotten.”

“Poor Frodo,” Pippin said, nudging Merry. “Doesn’t like not being the tallest anymore.”

“He was never the tallest,” Merry said, stealing a strawberry and popping it in his mouth. “I was.”

“That’s simply not true,” Frodo said, laughing. “Even Gandalf said I was taller than most.”

“Most, but not _all,_” Merry said.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Pippin said, snagging some jam from Frodo’s tray with his thumb. “Merry and I are both about a head taller than either of you.”

“Go on then,” Frodo said. “About the Ents…”

And so Merry and Pippin chattered on and on about the Ents, interrupting one another, giving every detail that they could think of, until it was apparent that Frodo had fallen into a blissful nap, his lips still turned up in an amused smile. Merry and Pippin took the tray, and Sam adjusted the blankets around Frodo’s chin once more before they all crept out of the room, leaving Frodo alone.

The sun was high in the sky by the time Frodo woke again to the sound of knocking on his door.

“Come in,” Frodo said, rubbing his eyes and trying to sit up.

Faramir came in, and Frodo gasped with delight. He had not seen Faramir since the coronation and had not had a chance to speak to him since they had parted at Henneth Annun.

Faramir looked a little embarrassed. “I do not wish to disturb your rest. I hope I have not awakened you.”

“Oh, no, please do come in!”

Faramir closed the door behind him and sat on the same stool that Sam had used earlier. “I was alarmed when I heard that the Ringbearer had collapsed during the feast. Just seeing you now has eased my fears a lot. You look well.”

“Thank you,” Frodo said. “I did not collapse as rumored, but grew sick to my stomach from the heat yesterday. But I’ve been well taken care of. It’s wonderful to see you again, Faramir! When we parted last…well, I did not have high hopes that I would see any of my companions again.”

Faramir nodded. “When I heard that Gandalf had brought back the Ringbearers and that they still lived, I must admit that I sat against the wall and wept with open relief.”

Frodo blushed. “That is kind to say.”

Faramir smiled. “I’d only met you for a time, but you and Samwise taught me much about true courage and hope beyond endurance. It was a lesson I carried with me into battle, even when the shadows seemed their darkest my despair at its peak.”

Frodo clasped Faramir’s hand in his smaller hands and squeezed. “I’m glad beyond belief that we’re able to talk again, this time in peace and leisure. Thank you for visiting me.”

They fell into talking as if they had been dear friends for years. It seemed they might talk for days on end and never run out of topics. Faramir told Frodo tales from his childhood in Minas Tirith, of meeting Mithrandir and listening to his tales, of amusing anecdotes that involved Boromir. Frodo in turn told about the Shire, about his adventures in mushroom thieving and other pranks, and also about Merry and Pippin. And he spoke of his time when he had come to live with Bilbo, the best years of his life.

Aragorn entered, grinning when he saw Faramir and Frodo in such deep, enthusiastic conversation.

“How do you feel, Frodo.”

“I hope I’ve not kept him from needed rest,” Faramir said, standing. “I’m afraid we’ve talked the afternoon away.”

“Nonsense,” Frodo said. “You’ve kept me from itching to get out of bed again.”

“That’s no small matter,” Aragorn said, nodding at Faramir in approval.

Frodo looked at Faramir. “Faramir, do you have many duties in the coming days?”

Faramir glanced from Aragorn to Frodo. “That would be determined by our king.”

Aragorn grinned, knowing what Frodo was about to ask.

Frodo smiled back. “Aragorn -- our _king_ has been kind enough to offer to take me up to Mount Mindolluin, as soon as I am well, which will probably be tomorrow –”

“Not so fast,” Aragorn said. “That is for me to decide.”

“_Possibly_ tomorrow,” Frodo said. “Since the King must agree that I’ve color in my cheeks, and Faramir can confirm that I’ve kept up a steady stream of chatter all afternoon, both of you can see that I feel just fine. The snow should do away with any lasting ill effects of the heat.”

“Mount Mindolluin. That is quite a hike,” Faramir said. “Are you certain you’re both strong enough for it?”

“We’ll not be hiking,” Aragorn said. “I’ve determined that we’ll ride most of the way.”

“Oh, Faramir,” Frodo broke in. “Will you join us?”

“Join you? You wish me to come up the mountain with you?”

Aragorn walked to the window and looked out toward the mountain. “Frodo wants to feel snow on his feet and to breathe the fresh mountain air.”

“The air up there is some of the most invigorating in all Middle-earth, so I’ve heard,” Faramir said. “If the King will allow it, it will be a great honor to join you.”

Frodo clapped in delight. “Thank you!”

Aragorn nodded, his lips twitching with merriment. “The King will gladly accept you as a companion. There is much we must carry up there, since we will need to camp at least one night since the paths are treacherous to travel on at night.”

“Both of you, thank you so much,” Frodo said, his eyes shining. “I’ve wanted an adventure, a real adventure.”

The men stared at him in disbelief.

“Have you not had adventure enough?” Faramir asked.

Frodo laughed. “No, I mean a real adventure, one that is exciting and different, but without the danger and heart-ache.” Frodo’s laughter faded and he became sober. “When I carried the…” He swallowed before continuing, “_it_, it was such an evil presence. It blocked me from enjoying and appreciating much of the journey. Especially after Weathertop, always it hung from me like a hideous burden, whispering in my ears, shadowing my vision and my feelings. Lothlorien was better, but then the grief of Gandalf’s fall in Moria shadowed everything.” He shuddered.

“Of course,” Aragorn said, swallowing. “You want an adventure that you can tell like Bilbo’s _There and Back Again_ tales.”

“Indeed,” Frodo said, sighing. “So much of what happened on this…quest…I’d rather keep buried and untold. I want a good tale for the children in Hobbiton, not one that will have their parents come after me when their little ones wake up with nightmares.”

The men laughed.

“Well,” Aragorn said. “Perhaps another day in bed. I think we should be ready to set off the day after tomorrow.”

“Wonderful,” Frodo said, settling back under the covers. He glanced at Faramir sternly. “Do not breathe a word to anyone about this…adventure. Aside from Gandalf, nobody is to know where we’re going.”

“Certainly,” Faramir said, but then he hesitated, blushing. “Is it all right if I tell the Lady Eowyn? She will be concerned if she does not find me.”

“Oh,” Frodo said, grinning. “All right then, you may tell her…as long as she can keep a secret.”

Faramir stood beside Aragorn, near the window, looking out. “I do not like the look of those clouds developing in the west.”

“Fear not,” Aragorn said. “This time of year, the mountain rarely gets but a coverlet of snow.”

“But it is dangerous up in the mountains if a snowstorm takes us unexpectedly.”

“We shall bring enough supplies.”

Faramir nodded, still clearly fretting. “I do think we should keep our eye to the sky.”

“And we shall.” Aragorn turned to Frodo and smiled. “I’d not put us or Frodo into any unnecessary danger.”

“I trust you,” Frodo said, smiling at the two men. “And I am honored to have you both as my travel companions once again.”

  
Two mornings later, Frodo woke before sunrise. He rolled out of bed and stood before the arched window, entranced by the mist that danced over the distant silver snake of the Anduin River. A rare chill hung in the air, more typical of winter than late spring. Frodo dressed with excitement (_this is how an adventure should begin_ he thought) and donned his Elvish cloak, pulling the hood over his face. He had already packed his bag the night before (no small matter with his cousins popping into his room every few moments to check on him, to tease him, or to offer him nabbed snacks from the kitchen).

Frodo slung his packed bag over his back, hoping not to wake Sam, who slept in a bed in the same room snoring away. Frodo stood beside Sam’s bed, looking down at him with such adoration that it flooded his heart. Dear old Sam! He had been through so much, and no hobbit deserved more honor than he. Frodo dearly hoped that once Sam realized that his master was in the safe hands of the King and Prince Faramir, that he would enjoy a few days of true rest, with no obligation to see to Frodo’s needs.

Frodo dared a fond kiss on Sam’s brow in farewell before creeping out of the room and down the stone steps that led out to the road.

Once outside, Frodo shivered in the raw chill. The sun had not yet risen, nor did it seem it would. Bulbous gray clouds, swollen with coming rain, crowded the sky. Frodo frowned. He hoped it would not rain during their trek up the mountain. Most of all, he hoped that Aragorn and Faramir would not decide the trip was too risky with the coming rain. He would bow to their decision, of course, but it would be disappointing and he was not sure if they would get another chance for a trip up the mountain.

Frodo bent against the bleak wind, and he trekked up the winding stone road. Most people were not yet awake, especially not on such a dreary morning. A few people had stirred and were doing odds and ends like sweeping their front stoops or opening their windows to let in the fresh air, however chilly. Some shopkeepers had set up shop already.

He heard the _clop-clop_ of horses from farther up the road, and not wishing to be seen by anyone but Aragorn and Faramir, he darted into the shadows of a nearby alley and peered out at the road until two horses came into view. He sighed in relief when he recognized Aragorn and Faramir.

He stepped out from the shadows and waved. No need to break the eerie early morning silence with a shout.

The men grinned when they saw Frodo and halted their horses. Frodo noticed that Aragorn had dressed in his old Ranger garb. This delighted him, as it reminded him of his old friend _Strider_ with whom he had journeyed for so long. Since Frodo had awakened in Ithilien and Aragorn had taken on his duties as King, a natural aloofness had settled between them. This was nobody’s doing, certainly not Aragorn’s, but Frodo felt it all the same. It was not that Aragorn ignored him. On the contrary, Aragorn was always kind and courteous, and especially in the last few days he had been most attentive.

What shaped this aloofness between them had more to do with all the ceremony and new titles for them all. King…Ringbearer. Frodo _abhorred_ being called “Ringbearer.” He wanted nothing more than to be Frodo again and to leave the role of Ringbearer behind him in the shadows. Yet here in Minas Tirith, the title surrounded him like a glass bubble, separating him from everyone else, even his dearest of cousins and friends.

But today was special, a chance for a new adventure, and Frodo vowed to abandon such melancholy thoughts.

Faramir and Aragorn dismounted their steeds.

“Will you do me the honor of riding with me, Frodo?” Faramir asked, gesturing toward his horse.

“Gladly.”

Faramir lifted Frodo onto the horse. Frodo’s legs straddled the back of the enormous beast. He had not mounted a horse since…Glorfindel’s horse on that dark day he fled the Black Riders all the way to the Ford, and he found it magnificent to sit upon such a great steed and know that he was not in mortal danger. He had forgotten how high up it was atop a horse.

“Comfortable?” Faramir asked, climbing up behind him.

“Indeed.”

“Let us set off then,” Aragorn said. “There is an ancient path that leads into the foothills of Mount Mindolluin, rarely used by any but the kings of old.”

Before long, Frodo, Aragorn, and Faramir rode up a trail that wound around the mountain, leaving the city of Minas Tirith behind. For a time Frodo was content to watch the scenery around him. On his right side, the path dropped into a dizzying precipice that stood above the city. Looking down from such a great height turned his stomach and so instead he gazed upward at the distant lofty peaks on which the snow never melted.

“Faramir,” Frodo asked. “Did you ever travel up this mountain as a lad?”

“We never did,” Faramir said. “But Boromir and I talked about it. As lads we wondered how long it would take us to reach the highest peaks. I cared not about the snow. We do get snow in Minas Tirith at times and so it is not a novelty for us.”

“So why did you want to travel up here?” Frodo asked.

Faramir laughed a little. “You must see, Frodo, how the wall that surrounds our city is a mighty fortress, built to protect the city. But I longed always for nature, for grass and trees, to escape far from the cares of war or battle or the reminders thereof. I should have found your Shire a wondrous place. Boromir thought to travel up there for the conquest. War and battle never ruffled him…he wanted always to show his strength and nobility…” Faramir’s voice trailed off.

“You miss him, don’t you?” Frodo asked.

“Yes.” Faramir swallowed. “I shall always miss him. And my father.”

“Mindolluin,” Frodo added, eager to change the subject to one of more cheer. “The name has rather an Elvish lilt to it.”

“Indeed,” Aragorn said from in front of them on the trail. “It is Sindarin for _towering blue head._”

“An apt name,” Faramir said. “It always seemed so, towering over our city, shadowing it.”

  
After a time, the steady plodding of the horse eased Frodo into a pleasant doze propped against Faramir’s chest. Faramir wrapped his fur-lined cloak around Frodo so that only his nose and eyes could be seen. The chilly breeze sharpened into a wicked and raw wind. But Frodo napped in warm contentment.

Suddenly he jerked awake. Something cold and wet had landed on his cheek. He stared around him in wonder. During the short time he had napped, the world had changed. All around him, crystal snowflakes fluttered from the gloomy sky. They came down not hard and fast, like they had on Caradhras, but instead they pin-wheeled down with slow grace. Frodo held out his sleeve, hoping to capture an enormous lazy flake. He watched as it melted into a cold drop of water.

“How long has it been snowing?” Frodo asked.

“For a few hours.” Faramir’s voice sounded tense.

“It worries you, does it not?” Frodo asked. “I am sorry. I feel responsible for…I know you were reluctant about this journey.”

“Do not beg my pardon,” Faramir said, squeezing Frodo’s shoulder. “If the choice came before me again tomorrow, I should still choose to come with you on this journey. If I am fretful it is because of the path. You have seen how treacherous it is. My fear is that this turn in the weather may keep us from safely attempting this path tomorrow.”

Frodo stared, breath held in wonder, as more and more lacy snowflakes landed on his sleeve. It was difficult for him to believe that something so gentle and beautiful could be treacherous. Caradhras had taught him differently of course – and he had seen there how quickly an innocent snowfall had turned dangerous. All the same, he could not keep the grin from his face.

He laughed, determined to hold good cheer. “It is late in the spring, and any snowfall is likely to be short-lived this far down. After all, we’re hardly up in the peaks.”

“Of that you are right.” Faramir laughed a little. “It is likely that even by tomorrow that this could all have melted.”

“So let us then enjoy the beauty of it for now and worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes.”

“Wiser words were never spoken,” Faramir said with a chuckle.

“And,” Frodo added. “Aragorn brought enough supplies. We will simply enjoy any time we have up here. When it is safe to attempt these paths, we shall come home. Gandalf knows where we are. If he becomes concerned, he’ll send a guard up after us. Fear not, Faramir. The Dark Shadow has passed. Surely nothing after that can cause us fear.”

Faramir laughed in full then. “I am glad I have come to know you after the end of the War. I’ve come to know a far different side to you. In Ithilien you were cautious and wise and soft-spoken, burdened by all that you had to face.”

“Are you saying I’m no longer soft-spoken or wise?” Frodo teased.

Faramir cleared his throat with feigned awkwardness. “Of the first I can say with certainty that you are no longer. Of the second, I am quite certain you are still in high favor. But make no mistake. This trip is not an inconvenience for me. Gladly I do it. The delay in getting back is not one that gives me any burden. I shall take your advice and trust in Aragorn.”

  
At last they reached a high field, and it looked down over the precipice that stood behind the City. The towers far below them looked like white children’s toys. The Vale of Anduin stretched out as far as the eye could see – like a patchwork garden. The Anduin River wound silver into the far distance until Frodo imagined that it met the distant silver glint of the sea.

Snow had already accumulated on the field, and the falling snow now blew about with dainty whimsy like the seeds from dandelions.

“It’s the most charming place!” Frodo said as Faramir helped him down from the horse. “Thank you so much for taking me here.”

“I’ve never been up here myself,” Aragorn said with a grin, dismounting.

Frodo wriggled his toes in the snow. It was delightfully cold and yet soothing to his battered feet which often still ached and burned, though he never complained about it. Looking about him, it seemed that he had stumbled into a magical Elvish realm far above the civilizations of mortals.

Suddenly something smacked his back, and he cried out in surprise and whirled around. Snow trickled down his back. Faramir was laughing.

“Pardon me?” Frodo said, appalled. “Did you just throw snow at me?”

“Have you never had a snowball fight?” Faramir asked.

“A snowfall is rare in the Shire,” Frodo said, bending to gather and ball snow in his hands. It numbed and wet his hands almost immediately. “And it’s usually not enough to do…_this_.” With that, he hurled a ball of snow with such unexpected speed that Faramir was taken by surprise until he was hit square in the chest.

Faramir laughed, clearly impressed, as he brushed snow from his tunic.

Aragorn laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I shouldn’t dare compete with a hobbit when it comes to throwing. Did you not know that they are some of the best stone throwers in all of Middle-earth?”

“Humph,” Faramir said. “We shall have to see about that.”

“Let us set up camp first,” Aragorn said. “I think we shall be in need of shelter soon enough. And a late lunch, too. Then we shall see indeed who will win this battle. I would bet all of Gondor on the hobbit.”

As they set up camp in a nearby hollow, the snow began to swoop down faster and with small, angry pellets that hurt Frodo’s skin. Gone were the lacy, slow-falling flakes. The wind blew, swooping past them in white swirling veils that sometimes blocked their view. And it showed no sign of coming to an end.

  
Frodo, Aragorn, and Faramir hustled to set up camp in the hollow of the mountain. It was fortunate that Aragorn had found this shelter. Frodo could not imagine any fire surviving the wind that swept past white streaks of snow, like furious spirits.

_Even Gandalf would struggle to keep a fire going up here._

The horses took shelter in the back of the hollow, but the howling of the wind seemed to unnerve them. They neighed and fidgeted.

Aragorn started a fire, and soon flames crackled delightfully, licking upward, toward the ceiling of the hollow, seemingly unaffected by the wind outside. Faramir folded thick wool blankets and placed them on the stone ground surrounding the fire.

Frodo leaned over the fire, rubbing his hands. Warmth seeped up his fingers and then up his arms. Heat soon turned into pleasant tingling. It was cozy, joyful, _wonderful!_

Frodo stared at his hands in wide-eyed wonder – first at his palms and then at the back of his hands. He scarcely breathed, so glad he was to feel tingling heat in his fingers. He wriggled his fingers, aware for the first time in months of just how alive he was.

For he had told nobody, not even Gandalf or Sam, of the dark secret that plagued his heart, that since waking in Ithilien, he had not _sensed_ things the way he ought to. He understood why, and it shamed his heart and sealed his lips against speaking of it to anyone. When he claimed the Ring in those shadowy moments while he had tottered at the brink of fire, the Ring had in turn claimed him, too, and when it had slipped under the bubbly lava, thus ending the Third Age forever, part of Frodo had perished in the fire as well.

There were small signs of this that Frodo kept quiet from the others. Often he swallowed food that he could not taste. Other times the world dimmed into twilight, even at noon on the brightest day. He sniffed roses, newly bloomed in the Courtyard of the White Tree, and could smell nothing and because his friends watched him with eager hope, he fibbed and exclaimed on their marvelous fragrance.

Because Frodo felt so joyous that he could feel the tingling warmth in his fingers, he laughed aloud, and it echoed in the hollow.

“What is this nefarious laughter,” Faramir asked, raising his brows as he piled the last blanket around the fire, “when clearly I will win the upcoming battle?”

“I shall allow you to believe it, Captain Faramir,” Frodo said with a smug grin. “Aragorn, which side will you join? I would strongly suggest reinforcing Faramir. He shall need all the help he can get.”

Aragorn laughed. “Ah, but I shall not fight on either side. We shall need more kindling if this fire is to last us all night.” He glanced at Frodo’s feet and his smile faded. “Your feet should not be bare. You could get frostbite.”

Frodo glanced at Aragorn with a bemused smile. “Frostbite?”

“When the cold renders your hands or feet so frozen that they become useless ever after and sometimes must be cut off. I’ve seen it happen in battle.”

“Aye,” Faramir said, his smile fading. “A friend of Boromir’s had to have his foot cut off for the same reason.”

Frodo frowned and touched the empty area where a finger had once been. “I don’t care to lose any more pieces of myself. What must I do? I want nothing standing in my way of claiming Ithilien from its Prince.”

“I’ve heard the Shire is a land of rich soil,” Faramir said, rubbing his hands over the fire. “I shall very much enjoy conquering it for my own uses.”

“Humph,” Frodo said. “And I can only imagine what an interesting muddle a man of Gondor would make of the pipe-weed business.”

“Have a seat,” Aragorn reminded Frodo with mock sternness. When Frodo obeyed, he said, “I shall wrap cloth around your feet, just as I did for all of you hobbits before we ventured up Caradhras.”

“And this is why I tripped and fell on Caradhras,” Frodo said to Faramir.

“You shall be shown no mercy for this weakness,” Faramir said.

“I shall not need it.”

Aragorn pulled cloth out of his pack that resembled bandages.

Frodo laughed. “You do think of everything, dear Aragorn, even for this small adventure.”

Aragorn chuckled. “A Ranger first before a King. Now give me one foot.”

Frodo offered his foot to Aragorn. In truth his toes had turned quite cold, even near the fire. Aragorn wrapped cloth around his both of his feet, which instantly warmed. All three of them wrapped their hands, and soon Frodo felt so cozy that he was nearly tempted to curl on the blanket in front of the fire and sink into a nice nap.

But no. There was a battle to be won.

Faramir and Frodo pulled the hoods of their cloaks over their ears and stepped outside the hollow, the blowing snow stung their faces, leaving them breathless. Before them they saw white blowing streaks, and they could no longer see far below the towers of Minas Tirith. The snow had accumulated fast, and already the heavy slushy snow went up to Frodo’s knees. As a result, it took a great effort to walk through it, and Frodo was rendered out of breath by the time they got a safe distance from the hollow. Meanwhile, Aragorn had gone on the hunt for more kindling before the snow covered it in a mighty blanket.

Faramir shouted something that Frodo could not hear over the wind, and he began packing snow into what looked like a fortress.

“What is that?” Frodo yelled. The wind muffled his voice, and he had to shield his face to avoid being stung. He was bent nearly in half by a strong gust of wind.

Faramir shouted again, and this time Frodo caught, “It is no good wielding war without a mighty citadel!”

Frodo laughed. “If that will make you feel better...”

But he, too, began to build his own fort. His was small and compact, just large enough for a hobbit to take shelter. Faramir’s included sculptured towers and what looked like seven tiers. Frodo looked at it in wonder. “You’ve built a small Minas Tirith!”

Faramir grinned. “Indeed. And Minas Tirith has never yet fallen.”

“Ah, well,” Frodo grinned. “There _was_ that small matter of the destruction of that pesky Ring.” And he laughed again, tilting his face toward the stinging snow, feeling dizzy with joy that he could jest now about the Ring, especially about what had happened at the end. He breathed in sharp air, and he _felt_ it in his lungs, frigid and hard. It hurt, but he relished it. He wondered if this marvelous new _feeling_ of things would last after he left the mountain.

Suddenly a snowball whizzed past Frodo’s face, barely missing him. He stared at Faramir in indignant shock. “You gave me no warning!”

Faramir answered only with a second snowball, which hit its mark in the middle of Frodo’s chest, nearly knocking him off balance.

Frodo squared his shoulders with the same determination that had gotten him through Mordor and glared at Faramir. He rolled snow in his hands and hurled it at Faramir, hitting him square in the jaw. Faramir rubbed his face, staring at him in astonishment. “That hurt!”

“Good!” Frodo shouted, and he threw another, which also hit Faramir in the face.

“The hobbit has bite,” Aragorn said, grinning as he fished more kindling under the thick blanket of snow.

Frodo and Faramir continued to pummel each other. Frodo’s throws continued to hit their mark with astonishing accuracy -- fast and rather disconcerting for Faramir, who had clearly prepared to play soft against his smaller opponent.

At times Faramir’s size and strength did help him, because the rare times his snowballs reached their target, their force was such that they left Frodo gasping for breath.

“Do you not surrender?” Faramir called, out of breath.

Frodo leaped up from behind his fort, and as he did so, his bandaged foot, now soaked through, caught the icy surface of a buried boulder, and he fell hard, crumpling in a tangle of limbs. He felt bright, throbbing pain in his ankle, and he could do nothing but try to catch his breath.

Then Faramir was leaning over him, grasping his shoulder and shaking him, and his jesting manner had turned to pale concern. “Are you hurt?”

Frodo tried to nod, but when he shifted position, the pain in his ankle worsened. He could only clutch at it, hissing in agony.

“I’ve hurt my ankle,” Frodo hissed under his breath.

“I hope you will forgive me,” Faramir said, slipping his arm under Frodo’s shoulders to protect him from the snow.

Frodo’s lip curled in annoyance. “You did not cause my fall, so do not apologize.”

“I know…but I was rough and you’ve not yet fully recovered. Come, let us get you to the dry hollow.”

Frodo grabbed his forearm, staying it. He met Faramir’s gaze.

“Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, do not for a moment take the blame. I have _lived_ this day.” He gasped as he accidentally jarred his ankle. He continued through clenched teeth, “…or regret anything about this day. You cannot understand, but I _felt_ again, and that is no small thing.”

Faramir’s eyes opened in surprise, and he whispered, “I do understand. I--”

Aragorn joined them. “What is it?” he demanded, kneeling beside Frodo. “What has happened?”

Faramir stepped back, allowing Aragorn to assess the scene. “Frodo’s hurt his ankle.”

Aragorn lifted Frodo. “Let us get you by the fire. You’re shaking.”

Frodo smiled at Faramir. “I won the battle. Minas Tirith fell.”

“I concede,” Faramir said with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  
***

  
Samwise woke to the batter of rain against the window. He glanced across the room and saw that Frodo’s bed was made and that he appeared to be up already.

“He best not be walking about the city in this mess,” Sam grumbled to himself, rising on one elbow. Although it was more likely that his Mr. Frodo was downstairs enjoying a big breakfast with his cousins. From downstairs he could hear laughter and loud bantering and the occasional Gandalf chuckle.

Sam got dressed and trudged downstairs. He breathed in the lovely smell of butter and fresh bread and eggs and sausage. He’d never tire of any of that for the rest of his days.

“It’s about time, Sam!” Pippin called out. “Where’s that sleepyhead Frodo?”

“He’s not down here?” Sam asked.

Pippin laughed. “You must have woken up blind as well as sleepy. No, he’s not come down yet.”

“He ain’t in his bed.”

Merry looked suddenly concerned. “He’s not wandering about in this dreadful weather, is he?”

Gandalf puffed on a pipe and said nothing. Why he showed not one bit of concern went beyond Sam’s understanding.

“Well, I’m going out right now and bringing him in,” Sam said. “I’ll not have him catching his death of cold just after he’s barely recovered.”

“We’re coming with you,” Pippin said, reaching for his cloak.

“No need, lads,” Gandalf said. “Frodo is safe in the hands of the King and Prince Faramir.”

Sam stared at him, confused. “Well…where is he then?” Frodo had said no such thing to him about an outing.

“They’ve gone up Mount Mindolluin.”

Sam’s mouth hung open. “The mountain? The one with SNOW on it? Now why would Mr. Frodo want to go and do a foolish thing like that? And after all he’s been through. He didn’t say nothing to me about it.”

Gandalf chuckled, puffing a perfect smoke ring. “Of course you wouldn’t have known about it, Samwise Gamgee. He wanted to keep it a secret.”

“My word,” Merry said, looking out the window, fretting. “If it’s raining cats and dogs here and there’s a chill to the air, then it might well be snowing up the mountain! You don’t think they’re in any danger, do you, Gandalf?”

Gandalf continued to puff on his pipe, still looking aggravatingly calm. “Aragorn has been a Ranger for many, many years, far longer than you’ve been alive, Merry. He’ll not put them into unnecessary danger.”

“He best not,” Sam said, settling in his chair with a grunt. “Or King or not, he’ll have to contend with Samwise Gamgee, yes sirree.”

 

Frodo’s ankle throbbed like the stings of thousands of wasps. It continued to swell until it was nearly twice the size of his other ankle. Aragorn carried him through the deepening snow and into the cave. He settled him on a mound of furs, wrapping a heavy blanket around his shoulders. The fire crackled and warmed his face. Despite the pain, he felt sleepy. Faramir followed them into the cave. He looked worried.

“The storm is worsening.”

Aragorn nodded. “I know. But we’re prepared for the night. Faramir, hold Frodo in your lap, if you will. I will wrap up his ankle.”

Frodo might have protested being coddled, but even with blankets covering his shoulders, he shivered from the cold and the pain and in truth, being cradled by a much larger, warmer person appealed mightily.

“I’m going to lift you now,” Faramir said to him. “I will try not to hurt you.” True to his word, he lifted Frodo with utmost gentleness and settled him in his lap, readjusting and snuggling the blankets around him. “You shiver still, Frodo.” He spoke then to Aragorn. “We must get him down the mountain, my Lord. Being injured like this so soon after recovering from all he’s been through…I fear for him in this cold weather…should our fire go out--”

Aragorn rifled through his pack. “You know as well as I do that we cannot travel in such a storm. It would be folly. We’d likely end up at the bottom of a cliff and not discovered again until spring. Here we have a strong fire and plenty of kindling, we have blankets, and we have more than enough food. We shall wait out the storm until morning. By then, not only will the storm be finished, but possibly the snow will be on its way to melting. It is spring, after all.”

“I am all right,” Frodo said. “And Aragorn is right. I’d much rather stay here covered in blankets than attempt that trek down in the dark and snow.”

Aragorn took a cloth from his pack. He stepped outside the cave and filled it with snow. He bound it to Frodo’s ankle. “This should bring down the swelling. I know it is cold but I hope you can endure it for a time.”

“Thank you. I am otherwise so warm and cozy that I can hardly pay mind to one cold foot. And cold is better than pain. And pain…well, it is better than feeling nothing at all.” Frodo’s throat caught a little at that last.

Aragorn smiled at him as if he understood exactly what Frodo meant. “My friend, I would have you feel again. But if it is within my power, it will not be pain that you feel.”

Frodo nodded, deeply moved by the kindness of his friends. “Thank you. Now, I should very much like to hear a tale. What do you say?”

“What sort of tale?” Aragorn asked.

“I do not know any off hand,” Faramir mumbled.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Prince Faramir. I am quite certain you do.” Frodo twisted around to peer at Faramir’s face. “You were the rascal who did not attend to his studies because he was busy chasing dragons!”

Faramir laughed. “But these are not the serious types of tales that you no doubt want to hear.”

“Fie on serious tales,” Frodo laughed. “Come, Faramir, tell us a tale about when you were a young rascal of the Citadel.”

“Yes, Prince Faramir,” Aragorn said as he stirred the fire and began to boil water in a kettle over it. “Tell us a tale of your youth.”

Faramir laughed. “Very well.” For a time all they heard was the pleasant crackle of fire on kindling, but in time Faramir spoke again. “When I was a lad of about eight summers, Boromir and I were to have instruction in sword play. Boromir of course was very gifted at sword play and loved to attend and was praised by our instructor and our father every day. I, on the other hand, was clumsy and inept and earned only growls from the instructor and keen glances of disapproval from Father. So one day when it was time to go, I slipped away before Boromir noticed. I knew the best possible place to hide.”

Frodo snuggled against Faramir, drowsy and content.

“And where was that?” Aragorn asked. “I imagine that you know the Citadel far better than I do.”

Faramir laughed. “Well, it was where you might expect a bookish lad to hide – the library. I crawled inside and hid in a musty corner surrounded by old scrolls. And then I had a terrible fright. As I started to touch one of the scrolls, it was snatched from me and I stared up into the face of an old man with a long gray beard and thick, bushy eyebrows and a stern gleam in his eyes.”

“Gandalf!” Frodo said in delight. “I had wondered how old you were when you first met Gandalf.”

Faramir laughed. “Indeed. He gaze down at me very sternly and I thought for certain that I was in for it, that he would drag me to my father, who would not be so amused. But instead Gandalf (or Mithrandir as we called him) laughed, and it was a joyful sound and it made my heart glad.

“Well, Master Faramir, he said to me, I see you’ve found the best room in the Citadel.”

“Yes, sir, I said back to him.”

“What would you like to know? For you must have come here for knowledge. Am I right?”

“I want to know everything, I said to him, I want to know about Elves and magic and dragons and—”

“Imagine if you and I had been friends as lads,” Frodo said. “Gandalf must have thought he had escaped incessant questions from curious hobbit lads only to find the same thing in Gondor.”

“I can well imagine the mischief you and I would have gotten into if we were friends as lads,” Faramir laughed. “But Gandalf was very kind to me and he told me tales until the sun went down, and I got in frightful trouble from my father later for skipping my lessons.”

They could not see the sun through the storm, the light outside the cave dimmed to an increasingly darker gray until it faded altogether into total darkness. The wind howled and whistled as it continued to sweep snow past the cave. Frodo felt safe and warm, cuddled in Faramir’s arms with the firelight bathing his cheeks. He wondered what the other hobbits were doing right now and whether they were worried. Of course Gandalf would have surely told them where he was by now. Gandalf! Frodo wondered if Gandalf would come get them if the storm got out of control. He imagined him riding Shadowfax, melting the snow before him with his staff.

A howl separate from the wind suddenly cut into the night.

“What was that?” Frodo asked, alarmed. “Are there wolves in these parts?”

“Certainly,” Faramir said. “We are in the mountains.”

“But not Wargs?”

Faramir laughed. “Nay, not up here. Fear not. These wolves do not bother people. They are more frightened of us than we should be of them.”

“How is your ankle, Frodo?” Aragorn asked.

“I do not feel it much,” he said.

“That is well. I should let you know that I brought one of Minas Tirith’s finest wines,” Aragorn said. “It is my thought that we should have a mug of warmed wine and fear no outside noises.”

“That sounds splendid,” Frodo said.

Aragorn heated the wine until it was just warm enough not to lose its potency. Faramir adjusted the blankets around Frodo so that he was thoroughly warm and settled.

“Are you weary of my weight on you?” Frodo asked.

“Nay. It is not a burden and it is only a privilege to offer you comfort.”

The heated wine was sweet and warmed him inside, and Frodo’s cheeks heated. He barely felt the pain or cold of his ankle.

“Between the three of us,” Faramir said. “We have enough tales to keep us for years. Frodo especially.”

“I do not wish to talk about anything on the quest,” Frodo said, shivering.

“Of course. I am sorry. I would never ask that of you.”

“What about a Shire tale?” Aragorn asked. “We rarely had the time to exchange such tales while on quest. Tell us of Frodo the mushroom thief.”

“Mushroom thief?” Faramir asked, raising his brows.

“I was the worst rascal in Buckland for a time, I must admit,” Frodo said.

“Tell us.”

“It was always a sore thing to be a young hobbit lad with an ever yawning stomach, always hungry, always wanting to eat, and hobbits have a passion for mushrooms that surpasses the greed of most Big People…er…present company excepted of course. At any rate, it was rumored that Farmer Maggot had the best crops in the Shire. Fat mushrooms, tall mushrooms, button mushrooms, succulent mushrooms…he had them all.”

“Which kind was your favorite?” Faramir asked.

“I never saw a mushroom that I did not wish to devour,” Frodo laughed.

And so the three friends took turns telling light and mischievous tales from their childhood. Even Aragorn had caused a bit of trouble in Rivendell at times. Frodo knew there had been a reason why Elrohir and Elladan teased him about a golden teapot and Master Elrond’s herbs and many sick bellies.

The heated wine, soothing voices of his friends and crackling of the fire soon lulled Frodo into a deep sleep still in Faramir’s arms.

The next morning snow drifts like fallen clouds glittered bright in the sun like pearls and gems.

Frodo wiped his sleepy eyes, looking around him. The fire had burned low and it was bone-chilling cold in the cave. He rubbed his hands together, watching his breath form in clouds before him. Faramir and Aragorn stirred and woke.

“The sun shines and already the icicles are beginning to melt,” Faramir said. “We should be able to make it down the mountain today.”

Frodo caught a faint whimpering or whining in the distance, but he could not tell where it came from. The cave made for strange sound patterns. It came not from the horses. They had eaten and were swishing their tails in contentment. Frodo strained to hear it again.

“What is it, Frodo?” Faramir asked. “Does your ankle pain you?”

“Do you hear that sound?”

“I hear nothing,” Faramir said, puzzled.

“I think it is coming from outside.”

Aragorn added, “My hearing is keen but is no match for a hobbit’s ears. If a hobbit hears something, it is well to check it out. I will go look.” Aragorn ducked out of the cave.

“Shall we follow him, do you think?” Frodo asked, rolling to a sitting position. His ankle flared with pain, and he cried out, clutching at it.

“Easy,” Faramir said, gasping his shoulders, steadying him.

“It was easy to forget that I am hurt after such a pleasant night.”

After a time he returned, carrying something white and furry and wriggling.

“What on earth –” Frodo began. “Is that a baby wolf?” He looked around in apprehension. “Isn’t its mother somewhere around?”

“He appears to be lost. Perhaps he got disoriented in the storm.”

Aragorn sat beside Frodo, and Frodo dared to touch his fur, stroking it as he would a normal puppy.  
“My goodness, he has soft fur, but we must find his mother or he will perish. Unless…” And Frodo smiled. He petted the wolf pup, noting the luxurious fur beneath his hand. “Unless we take it back with us.”

Aragorn’s eyebrows raised. “You would have a wolf in Minas Tirith?”

“It would make a good pet for a king,” Faramir said.

“No army would dare invade,” Frodo laughed. “Not when it is known that the King has a wolf as a pet.”

Faramir laughed. “I am quite certain rumors would flourish into more – that the king has an entire army of Wargs that he has bent to his will.”

“You would really wish to bring the pup with us?” Aragorn asked Frodo.

“Yes,” Frodo realized that the pup had fallen into a deep slumber in his arms. “He…well, I would not have him perish without his mother.”

“Then it shall be done,” Aragorn said.

  


  
The wolf pup snuggled in Frodo’s arms, keeping them both warm. The fire had died down to a low crackle, leaving the cave frigid. Aragorn had gone out to seek more kindling for the fire.  That act alone made Frodo adore and admire his friend all the more. Aragorn was king and could have demanded Faramir do such duties, but he still thought like a Ranger, never afraid to put in hard work when necessary.

The pup sniffed at Frodo’s face, every bit as happy and curious as a domestic puppy.

&lt;I&gt;I’ve half a mind to try to take him back to the Shire, but somehow it’s more fitting for Aragorn to keep him.&lt;/I&gt;

The idea of Aragorn sleeping in the royal bed with a wolf curled up at his feet made Frodo smile.

“What shall you will name him?” Faramir asked. He scratched the wolf pup’s ears.

“Me?” Frodo asked. “I think it will be up to the King to name him.”

They both looked up in surprise when Aragorn returned to the cave carrying the sprout of a silver-twigged tree, roots dangling like the legs of a drowned spider.

“What in the world?” Frodo asked. The pup squirmed in his arms, panting with excitement.

Aragorn smiled and there was true joy in his eyes. “It seems that hope has bloomed all along far up in the mountain, although we knew it not while the old tree withered and the armies of Mordor attacked. Here lies the Tree of Nimloth.”

“Hope oft lies in the smallest of creatures,” Faramir said in wonder.

“The twigs are silver,” Frodo said in wonder. “How did this storm not freeze the roots?”

Aragorn knelt beside his pack and extracted from it a gentle towel. With the care that one might take with a newly born babe, he wrapped the roots. “This little tree has survived beyond all hope already. I would have it survive the trip back.”

Frodo peered outside the cave, where the sun shone brightly. Inwardly he cursed his hurt ankle which prevented him from jumping up to take a good look at the marvelous golden twinkles that danced over the fresh snow.

Aragorn glanced at Faramir. “Please see if the snow has melted on the trail enough for us to attempt our return.”

“Yes, my lord,” Faramir said with a slight bow.

Aragorn knelt beside Frodo and petted the pup. “Never have I seen one so tame.”

“And I’ve only encountered the wicked ones that the Orcs used for their own devices.” Frodo shuddered. He then smiled and looked up at Aragorn. “What will you name him?”  The pup licked his fingers. Behind him, the horses stamped with impatience.

“We found him after a snowfall. What about &lt;I&gt;Losa?&lt;/I&gt;”

“Snow.” Frodo nodded. “That is perfect for his snow-white fur.”

Faramir returned a few minutes later. He looked worried. “The trail is impassable still, my lord.”

Frodo touched his ankle.  He was annoyed that there was no way for him to help the men in any manner.  He cradled the wolf pup.  He would have thought that a creature so wild, no matter how young, would be skittish around people.  But not so with this little one. He whined and squirmed, but he seemed perfectly content to lie in Frodo’s arms.  Frodo stroked his fur. “There now, little one. We shall take you somewhere safe and warm.”

The puppy looked up at Frodo with wide, trusting eyes.  Something stirred in his heart, and it was like the final cracking of thin ice on a pond when the first warmth of spring came.  

He could truly &lt;I&gt;feel&lt;/I&gt; again.

***

“Gandalf,” Merry said, looking fretfully out the window.  His stomach had heaved with anxiety all day. “I’m really worried about them. Look at those dark clouds around the mountain.”

Gandalf followed his gaze to the mountain, and although he tried to mask it, Merry could tell that he, too, was worried, which made Merry’s anxiety even worse. He had not survived everything he had, only to lose his cousin in a foolish, unnecessary expedition into the mountains. “They said nothing about spending a night up there.”

“They might be in all sorts of danger,” Pippin said. “If anyone knows how to get himself into a mess, it’s cousin Frodo!”

Sam coughed with annoyance.

“How’s that for the kettle calling the pot black,” Merry said.

Pippin paced in front of the window, masking his own anxiety by taking Merry‘s bait. “Who then inherited an evil Ring that took us across the world through many dangers? Who was that? Was that a Took? I think not!”

“Let’s not forget that it was because of Bilbo’s Tookish side that he set off on his adventure in the first place,” Merry said.  Teasing Pippin always made him feel better, even during the darkest of circumstances.

“My dear hobbits,” Gandalf said, setting down his pipe. “I cannot hear myself think! A dark cloud surrounds the mountain, but it appears to be lifting. All the same, it might have snowed so heavily yesterday that it has blocked their means of getting back down.”

“They’re not trapped up there then, are they?” Sam asked.  “What if something bad’s happened to them?  And Mr. Frodo’s barely recovered and all.”

Gandalf growled into his beard. “We will forge a way up.”

“Now,” Pippin said, jumping to his feet.

“No, no,” Gandalf waved in annoyance. “Not quite yet. We will need help. Peregrin Took, bring me four guards of the Citadel.  Tell them to bring shovels and whatever else they have to clear a path.”

Pippin nodded and was out the door in a flash, grim determination in his eyes.

“But that could take days!” Merry said with dismay.  “And I doubt they brought enough food and other supplies to last more than a day.” The idea of his cousin wanting for food after all they had been through wrung his heart inside out.

“Fear not,” Gandalf said and an old familiar twinkle sparked in his eyes. “It is likely that we’ll find nature on our side. The snow is melting as we speak!”

“But it’s only a guess,” Merry said, glowering at the dark clouds surrounding the mountain.

Gandalf laughed. “My good hobbits, if you wish to come, you must dress warmly and be ready to go in two hours.”

“Two hours?” Merry said. “I can be ready in five minutes.” He shouted down the street, “Hurry it up, Pip!”

Sam scowled. “Confound it all, Mr. Frodo. Why did you have to want a go at another adventure? I know I’ve had enough to last a lifetime and the lifetimes of all my future children.”

  
***

Aragorn had started a new fire inside the cave. The sun crept closer and closer to the center of the sky, and as it did, the gentle dripping of melting icicles turned into a steady dribble of running water. The snow no longer twinkled, but instead looked slushy. Faramir looked fretful.  He had fed the horses that had become most restless, and they had given Losa some water and horse feed.

“I fear we will spend a second night here,” Faramir said. “And what of our own food supply? Perhaps we too will be eating horse feed before we can get down.”

Aragorn laughed. “I am not worried. The snow is melting fast.”

Frodo caught a sound on the wind like merry laughter. “Do you hear that?”  If he didn’t know better, he would think it was his rascal cousins. But how would they have reached them if the trail was impassable?

Aragorn and Faramir strained to hear anything, and suddenly Aragorn grinned. “Gandalf!” Faramir broke into a relieved grin. The laughter sounded close now, and Aragorn sprang to his feet and ran outside the cave.

“What have we here?” Gandalf laughed, wielding his staff, which glowed with white throbbing light. “A King stranded in the cave with an unruly hobbit?”

“Where is Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked.

“Frodo was injured yesterday -- do not fret,” Aragorn threw up his hands in defense against the fierce concern that swept over the hobbits’ faces. “He will be all right, but he’s being kept warm inside the cave.”

Sam had already been let down from his horse, and he ran through the slushy snow toward the cave. Merry and Pippin followed him.

“Sam!” Frodo said, looking up in joy. “Am I ever glad to see you! And Merry and Pippin, you came too? How did you get up here so fast?”

“Gandalf used his staff,” Pippin said.  “We didn’t need to worry about any Enemy seeing us.”

“Tell me right now where you’re injured!” Sam demanded, falling to his knees beside Frodo.

“I turned my ankle – nothing to fret about.”

“Why didn’t you say you was going to scale the mountain, sir?” He looked so indignant that Frodo laughed, and Sam added stubbornly, “I would have followed you.”

“Haven’t you spent enough time following me into danger?” Frodo grabbed Sam’s hand. “Oh, dear Sam, please don‘t be mad. I needed to do this! I feel far better than I have since…since we woke up!”

“But then you went and got yourself hurt and all.”

Frodo smiled, unable to explain that part of his healing was knowing that he could feel the pain in his ankle. He hung his head, allowing Sam to fuss over him. “I feel like an army of hobbits has come to rescue me.”

“We were worried,” Merry said.  

Pippin laughed. “When Gandalf and I first arrived in Minas Tirith,  a rumor followed us that a whole army of Halflings would come to save the city. Imagine me, a Prince of Halflings.”

“And in the end it only took two,” Merry said quietly, patting Sam on the shoulder.

“Four,” Frodo said firmly. “Four brave hobbits.”

Sam blushed. “Please, sir.”

Merry looked stern. “Don’t you be starting with that sir thing. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that far away day in Crickhollow when I said that Sam would jump down a dragon’s throat to save Frodo and was I not very nearly right?” He took sudden notice of the puppy in Frodo’s arms. “Hoy, what’s that?”

“It’s about time one of you noticed. This is Losa. We need a wolf or two in the Citadel, don‘t you think?”

Sam looked suspicious. “As long as she don’t grow up to be one of those wolves that we fought outside of Moria.”

While the hobbits had been talking, Aragorn had showed Gandalf the silver-twigged tree he had found.  

“I would have taken you up here to seek this in time,” Gandalf said. “I deem it is no small coincidence that you sought shelter right here at this time.”

At last they were ready to travel. Wrapping Frodo in blankets, Aragorn lifted him and set him on the horse. He climbed up behind him.

“I can’t thank you enough, dear friend,” Frodo said. “I’m only sorry that our little adventure that it turned into a bit of a mess.”

“No…” Aragorn said hoarsely. “Thank &lt;I&gt;you.&lt;/I&gt; This is but one small thing I could offer for a brave, brave friend. It is an honor to know you, to call you my friend.”

Frodo said nothing, but he leaned back with contentment and amidst the laughter of his cousins, he heard a strange, snoring sound. Losa was sleeping in his arms.

“How is your ankle now?” Gandalf asked Frodo. “Does it pain you?”

“Only a little,” Frodo said.  “It was a sacrifice I had to make to beat the Prince of Ithilien in a snowball fight.”

“I conceded only because you were injured,” Faramir said with a sniff.

“A snowball fight?” Sam scratched his head. “Looks like there’s still lots more tales to tell.”

“I hope there are will always be more tales to tell,” Frodo said. The sky spread out into blue infinity, promising a fine pattern of spring days to come.

  


  


END  



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